


Down the Rabbit Hole

by dexstarr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellamorte, Community: hp_emofest, Dark Mark, Denial, Disappointment, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, It's Bellatrix what do you expect, Legilimency, Longing, Masochism, Mindfuck, Obsession, Post-Order of the Phoenix, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr/pseuds/dexstarr
Summary: For Bellatrix, bad attention is better than none at all.





	Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> _Harry Potter_ is not mine and no profit is made from this work. Written for the LJ community [hp_emofest](https://hp-emofest.livejournal.com). Event: 2011 Valentine's Exchange.

Even though she is terrified of what he will say, Bellatrix cannot conceal her longing as she crawls towards her lord.   
  
She slinks towards him on her hands and knees, with her head down and her eyes lowered submissively, and her arse swaying underneath her robe. Every part of her body shows her desire, and if she were to raise her eyes, they would be black pools of lust.  
  
The Dark Lord is the only man — no, he is much more than a mere man in her eyes — that she debases herself for in such a way. No one else is worthy of her devotion and submission, not even her husband.  
  
When she reaches his throne, where he sits with Nagini coiled on his lap, Bellatrix waits for him to motion her forward. The minutes tick by slowly — first one, then five, then ten — until her hands and knees ache from holding up the weight of her body. The stones composing the floor are not smooth, and sharp little rocks dig into her palms and kneecaps. But she welcomes the pain; it is a balm for her master’s bad mood.  
  
He has never made her wait this long for his acknowledgement, and as even more time passes, Bellatrix realizes that he is extremely angry. Lucius may have been in control, but she could have gotten the prophecy — _if_  she had concentrated on the mission instead of on Sirius. The glee she had felt at killing him isn’t worth the Dark Lord’s displeasure.   
  
“Bellatrix.”   
  
The tired, bored tone of his voice when he finally speaks makes her stomach lurch anxiously, and Bellatrix crawls forward, stopping only when her fingers bump against the dais of his throne. Her heart beats excitedly, thumping through her fear, just from being in the Dark Lord’s presence, and a soft sigh escapes her mouth as she kisses the hem of his robe.   
  
But when her lips stay pressed to the black fabric for longer than they should, he kicks her away. The pointed tip of his boot splits her bottom lip, and even as she falls backwards on her arse, Bellatrix closes her eyes in ecstasy, grateful for the gift of pain from him.   
  
“You have displeased me, Bellatrix,” Voldemort says, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair.   
  
She licks a drop of blood from her lip before replying; the familiar taste of it slightly assuages her distress at failing him. “I am sorry, my Lord—”   
  
“Silence!” Her eyes snap open at Voldemort’s uncontrolled anger; there is a pause, and then he continues more calmly. “Do not offer me empty apologies. I expect better from you, Bellatrix, and you will control your emotions in the future.”   
  
His unspoken threat —  _or you will not serve me_ — hangs in the air between them for a moment before he motions to her again.   
  
Shifting back onto her knees, Bellatrix kneels before him, head bowed. Her riotous curls fall into her face, until all she can see is her black hair and his black boots. She wishes that she could say she will never fail him again — _never_ — but to say anything now would only infuriate him. And even though she enjoys seeing Voldemort let his anger loose — it is magnificent to watch — she does not want to show him any more of her lack of control.   
  
Voldemort makes her wait again for his attention, one hand idly stroking Nagini’s scales as he stares at a point above her head, and Bellatrix has to fight an urge to fidget. Arousal is building within her the longer she is in his presence; she always wants him, but even more than usual when he punishes her.   
  
For Bellatrix, bad attention is better than none at all.  
  
She hears a rustle of cloth, and cranes her neck sideways; out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Voldemort has pulled his wand out. Her heart flutters like a butterfly trapped in a net as she imagines what will come next.   
  
But instead of the piercing pain of the Cruciatus Curse, Bellatrix falls suddenly into a pair of gleaming red eyes—  
  
  
  
  
—and with a scream she wakens, and then she screams again when she sees nothing but darkness.  
  
Bellatrix was a creature of the night before Azkaban, preferring to do her depraved deeds under the cover of a black sky, but fourteen years in a lightless pit left her with a crippling fear of the dark.   
  
_Dark._  
  
_Dark._  
  
_Dark._  
  
Panic seizes her when  _Lumos_  does not work. She shouts the incantation until she’s hoarse, and in frustration she tosses her wand away. It falls to the floor with a hollow  _clunk,_  and instantly she wants it back, wants the comforting feel of magic in her hand.   
  
But she cannot find it in the dark.   
  
Defeated, she curls up on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, burying her face in the velvet of her robe. Her whole body shakes as she sobs, great choking gasps that leave her breathless, and she passes out again, alone.   
  
_Alone._  
  
_Alone._  
  
_Alone._  
  
When she opens her eyes, the darkness is still there, pressing down around her. She swears she can feel the crushing press of the inky gloom against her eyelids. The darkness slides into her open mouth, too, like a Lethifold creeping over its victim.   
  
The sound of her breathing, ragged and hysterical, eventually reminds Bellatrix of who she is. It isn’t befitting of a Black to be scared of the dark.   
  
_I am a Black. Blacks do not cry._  
  
_I am a Death Eater. Death Eaters do not cry._  
  
_I am Bellatrix Black Lestrange. The Dark Lord’s favorite servant. His most faithful follower. I alone tried to find him._  
  
She had proclaimed those very words before being sent to Azkaban, hadn’t she? Her faith and devotion to the Dark Lord had sustained her in that dark pit. Every half-smile or  _Crucio_  from him had been remembered over and over again; she had fought off the Dementors with the strength of her memories and her love for him.   
  
But being left alone in the dark eats at her confidence, until she fears that she has been forgotten.   
  
_Forgotten._  
  
    _Forgotten._  
  
_Forgotten._  
  
When a voice filters through the darkness, Bellatrix clings to it like a lifeline.  
  
It is the voice of the Dark Lord, and his sibilant tone is like honey on her scream-raw throat, thick and soothing and calming. The hissed words reverberate deep inside her, and they relax her as her own words could not.  
  
_Come, Nagini._  
  
_Elf! Bring me more parchment._  
  
_Stoke the fire._  
  
Even though his words are inconsequential, Bellatrix drinks them down like an expertly brewed Calming Draught. Her fear dissipates slowly, her breathing evens out, and she stops crying.  
  
_Go hunt, Nagini._  
  
_Get me some wine, elf._  
  
_Pettigrew, you will milk Nagini later, when she returns._  
  
Bellatrix repeats each phrase, her mouth curling around the words as she pictures his thin lips doing the same.   
  
The darkness doesn’t bother her now, and she uncurls, stretching out on the ground. She rests her left arm on her chest, just below her breasts, and strokes her Dark Mark, like she did in Azkaban. Her fingertips trace around the skull, twist through the coiled loops of the snake’s body and down to its fanged mouth.   
  
Suddenly, the Mark blazes to life, burning her flesh and fingers. Hope flares inside her, and she jumps to her feet, spinning on her heel.   
  
_Pop. Pop. Pop._  
  
A frantic scream rips from Bellatrix’s mouth as she hears more  _pops._  The other Death Eaters are congregating as the Dark Lord commanded, but she cannot Apparate out of this black hell.   
  
Her worst fear has come true: the Dark Lord has abandoned her.   
  
_I am in need of a new lieutenant; I have decided that Lestrange is unworthy._  
  
His words cut at her very being and she cries out. “Please, my Lord! Please—”  
  
  
  
  
“—Please!”  
  
“Yes, Bellatrix?”  
  
Blinking in confusion, her eyes watering from the light in the room, Bellatrix stares at her master. She is dazed by the sudden change in locations; she is still on her knees in front of Voldemort as she was before — before  _what?_  
  
“My Lord,” she mumbles, “I—”   
  
Voldemort chuckles and reaches a hand towards her face. Bellatrix leans into the unexpected caress as his thumb moves down her cheek, trailing through the tears drying on her skin. She shivers when he takes his hand away, and then almost swoons when he licks his thumb, tasting her grief.   
  
“You cry so sweetly, Bellatrix.” He leans forward and lowers his head to hers. “I almost enjoy punishing you,” Voldemort says as his tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, dipping into the cut he made earlier.   
  
Bellatrix can barely think with Voldemort’s mouth on hers, and she sways unsteadily, undone by his closeness and apparent affection. Understanding slowly floods her, and she gasps as she realizes that her nightmare took place entirely in her mind.  _I haven’t been abandoned,_  she thinks in relief.   
  
“T-thank you, my Lord,” Bellatrix says. “I promise I won’t let you down.” She tilts her head up, quivering as his tongue continues to play about her mouth.   
  
Voldemort chuckles low in his throat; it sounds more like Nagini’s hiss than a true laugh. “Your pure blood and your fear are simply delicious, Bella.” He chuckles again when she sighs in pleasure at his use of her nickname. “But if you displease me again, I  _will_  abandon you. I need faithful  _and_  useful servants, Bellatrix.”   
  
Suddenly, he pushes her away and says coldly, “Now, get out. I’ve wasted enough time on you tonight.”   
  
Unable to hold back a whimper, Bellatrix crawls away slowly, crushed at his abrupt dismissal. She finds it almost crueler than the mental torment; she had been  _so_ close to getting what she wanted.   
  
_One day the Dark Lord will honor me with what I want most: Himself._

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written in January 2011.
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://galacticcoyote.tumblr.com/)


End file.
